


Nametags

by Beginte



Series: Nametags [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically Dean thinks Cas' name is Charlie, Coffee Shop, Fireman Dean, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Shenanigans, Writer Castiel, because it's my favourite trope, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cas the writer fills in for Charlie who works at a coffee shop, and he wears her coffee-shop-logo t-shirt... with her nametag. Enter Dean, a smoking hot fireman searching for a perfect coffee. Dean instantly is attracted to the handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed Charlie and cannot forgive himself for failing to get his number. When he comes back the next day, however, Charlie somehow is a redhead girl, and no one seems to know anything about the blue-eyed wet dream...</p><p>Because mistaken identity is probably my favourite shenanigans trope out there :D</p><p>(Three-shot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all need some fun and giggles after that finale, and because I love mistaken identity :D And because I should be writing my thesis, but I'm busy ruling the kingdom of Procrastinatia. Or, I'd rule it, if I wasn't busy doing other things.

* * *

The quality of Dean’s coffee is pertinent to saving lives.

It’s a fact. Sam can roll his eyes and claim exaggeration all he wants, but it’s a damn fact, thank you very much. Dean needs good coffee when pulling an all-nighter shift at the firehouse, in order to stay awake, alert, but not overly buzzed and hyperactive. It’s a perfect, delicate balance, a masterful work of art to achieve, and therefore it requires a masterful work of art of a coffee to happen. It’s a quest. And it’s important.

In addition to the quality, he needs his quadruple order in a thermos, which is a deal breaker at some coffee houses. Many times he’s been forced to settle for less than perfect quality, or to repeatedly run out to the nearest Starbucks for a paper cup order, which is a horror. So – Sam can mock all he wants, but Dean is being a professional fireman, ensuring he is in top shape and state of cognizance to serve in case of emergency because some idiot stumbled back home drunk at 4 am and decided to see what will happen if he puts his cellphone in the microwave (a genuine case, and Dean wishes it’d only happened once).

Dean’s quest for the perfect coffee (available for thermos take-out) lasts for four years now, sometimes he finds something perfect enough, but usually it’s too far from either the fire station or his home, and it never is the complete perfection. It’s almost as important as pie ( _almost_ ).

The upside to this whole quest situation, is that a lot of coffee shops hire some really hot baristas – both guys and girls. And sometimes Dean has some time to call a number scribbled on a napkin once he’s slept off his latest night shift. Yeah, the one night stand game is slowly getting old, but with Dean’s working hours and apparent inability to sustain a relationship when he actually does try (Victor, Lisa), it looks like it’s all he can get, so he sticks with it.

He has a good life anyway. He’s got an awesome little brother (Sammy’s just finishing law school and could have made a better choice when picking his boyfriend), he likes his job, he’s got great people working with him (Jo, Aaron, Ash and their trainee Kevin), a great boss (Bobby who’s like family – they all are), his apartment is nice enough and he gets to watch TV for a whole day sometimes. It’s OK that the ‘relationship’ area of his life is limited to one night stands, really. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s got Sammy, he’s got his friends, he’s got his job.

And his life will be complete when he finds his perfect coffee (available for thermos take-out).

* * *

 

On Thursday, about to pull another night watch, Dean heads to a previously undiscovered coffee shop he’d glimpsed a few days ago out the Impala’s window. His shift starts at six, so he has some time to explore and potentially add another spot to the map of coffee shops he visits.

It’s a nice enough place, he judges as he nails a parking spot by some miracle. A one-off shop, not part of a chain or other huge company, which already for Dean is a promise of better quality.

On the inside, it looks nice, too. Cosy, he even has the urge to place an order and then sit at one of the slightly mismatched tables and just stay a while. Warm colours – pale yellow walls with brown furniture and what Sam would call ‘accents’. Curtains in windows, tied off nicely on the sides. Slightly crowded, but in a pleasant way, not a frustrated line of caffeine-withdrawn people panting on each other’s neck while lining up to three cash registers to rattle off their long orders.

It all smells of coffee, baked goods and a chance of something plain old, simple, good, _classic_. Not one of those whipped-creamed concoctions with twenty-seven words in their names that Sam’s borderline diabetic boyfriend prefers.

And when Dean gets to the counter, the promising nature of things skyrockets. There, behind the polished, wooden countertop, is perched a man – a crossover between a wet dream and a Renaissance inspiration, a face and a body that will become the eternally rechargeable batteries of Dean’s late-night imagination.

Gorgeous face, great cheekbones, dark crescents of lashes where his eyes are cast down, and full, impossibly perfect lips. His dark hair is wild, mussed in the most incriminating, I-just-had-sex way, and his head is tilted to the side as he’s standing, one hip cocked, one shoulder up as he’s bracing himself on the countertop with one hand while scribbling something in a notebook with the other.

Dean swallows, his throat constricting, and he takes a few steps closer, and the man’s sinful lips are parted, and he’s also arching one slender, perfect eyebrow in an almost cold fashion, and Dean’s dick is very definitely just as interested as Dean himself.

Nothing says ‘smooth game’ like a boner in a public place, Dean thinks with an inner groan, and worshipfully blesses the counter for providing the perfect shield. He straightens himself up, dons on the patented Dean Winchester charm, and saunters over to the counter and the perfect man behind it. He docks at the counter and reminds himself that running a hand through a perfect ( _very_ perfect) stranger’s hair is not an acceptable conversation starter.

“Hi there,” he announces himself, leaning on the counter on one elbow and shooting the gorgeous barista a confident smirk full of his irresistible charm.

The barista looks up, revealing a pair of cosmically blue eyes, _and how is Dean supposed to cope with this!_

“Hello.”

A delectable shiver teases down Dean’s spine – the man’s voice is like sex, gravel and finest whisky, and Dean wants to hear more of it. Preferably moaning his name…

“Yeah, uh – can I get a plain ol’ Americano?” he asks, leaning a bit further in, this one more inch closer.

“Naturally,” the guy’s eyes don’t move from Dean’s, their gaze so direct that it would be unnerving if it weren’t for how bottomless, fathomless and endless that blue gaze is. It doesn’t feel like it’s pushing and intruding, more like… opening something.

“Great. And – can I get it in a thermos?” Dean holds up his faithful night shifts companion (tin exterior, with black letters spelling out ‘Best Brother’ – a birthday gift from Sammy when Dean had passed his training and gotten officially made a fireman).

“Of course,” the barista replies again, his voice calm and somehow assuring as he reaches to take the thermos from Dean’s hand.

“Awesome. Just fill ‘er up, OK? And put in a lot of espresso, but, uh, not _too_ much, I guess. I need something with a kick, but steady, I work nights and I need it to keep me up but not hype me up,” he explains with vague hand gestures, inwardly cringing at his slightly fumbled words.

He expects the bored or odd look he’s gotten from almost every barista so far, or the plastic, wide-eyed look of fake interest he’s had from those interested in him, but instead he’s met with a slight frown of intense concentration, blue eyes focused and serious. There is a nod, a little pensive and understanding in a way that makes Dean’s heart flutter with some really unmanly fondness.

“I’ll do my best,” the gorgeous barista promises, and Dean grins with perhaps just a little too much teeth in it.

“Awesome,” he says, and leans a bit more comfortably against the counter, throwing a surreptitious glance back over his shoulder to make sure there isn’t a queue. Not even one person, just a few people sitting at their small tables and drinking their orders already. A group of college students does walk in, but they’re served by another barista.

Dean watches _his_ barista (and doesn’t that sound all sorts of nice) turn around to fiddle with one of the coffee machines, preparing the espresso and boiling the water. His hands are gorgeous, too, which is unfair – they’re slender and clearly strong, but also graceful, and the way they touch and press and twist the various mechanisms makes Dean think they’re also very sensitive. His fingers are perfect and precise, working on the buttons and levers, and Dean swallows, wanting those fingers working on him, _in_ him…

(Awesome, he’ll never be able to watch a coffee machine being worked without getting a boner.)

There are some dark stains on those fingers though, he notices as he keeps on watching their skilled and yet occasionally hesitant (confused?) workings. Black stains, kind of like… from a fountain pen or something. Come to think of it, he hasn’t really seen baristas with ink-stained fingers before. They use sharpies to jot down names for coffee orders, and that doesn’t stain. Dean glances down at the notebook he recalls the Renaissance angel scribbling in, and yes, there’s a well-used pen propped up against it. The notebook itself is nice, hard covers bound in some dark fabric, a little frayed around the edges from use and being carried places.

“So, how you doing?” Dean hums, making use of his lazy Southern charm.

“Oh. Fine, thank you,” the barista glances at him over his shoulder, showcasing a very nice profile with a straight nose, a blue eye wide, flashing at Dean quickly before he turns back to his task. He moves to take the electric kettle of boiled water and nearly collides with the other barista, stepping away, and turns to cast Dean a sheepish glance, kettle in hand as he shrugs. “I suppose one could say this is not my, ah… natural habitat, but I make do as I can.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you’re doing just fine,” Dean gives him a small grin and tops it up with a subtle, quick once-over.

The barista tips his head to the side, looking just a little bit done, but the faint curl of a smile in the corners of his lips as well as his eyes, tells Dean he’s amused. The patented Dean Winchester charm never fails.

“Perhaps you should try the coffee, since this is the ability on which my _fineness_ is supposed to be judged here,” he pours hot water into the espresso.

He’s oddly graceful about it, hands strong but deft, and Dean enjoys himself, watching the elegantly muscled forearms revealed by the T-shirt.

The tee is not the most flattering thing on the planet – it’s beige, with a brown logo, but nicely fitted and a little stretched across the chest, which is a definite plus in Dean’s little black book. There’s a nametag attached, and Dean tries to be nonchalant and surreptitious about squinting and stretching his neck out like a turtle (OK., not his subtlest moment, so sue him) to read the name.

Charlie.

Huh. He doesn’t really look like a Charlie, Dean decides, looking the man over again. Maybe a Charles, as in, James McAvoy’s Charles Xavier – blue-eyed, ruffled and a little out of place, but surprisingly witty.

Dean takes a moment, enjoying the view – the barista’s eyes are cast down as he stirs the contents of the thermos with gentle and even movements of his arm, lips parted, and a sharp jawline the curve of which Dean wants to map out with his tongue.

Charlie clears his throat, and Dean’s eyes snap up, to find that slender eyebrow arched again, blue eyes a little wide and searching his, plump lips parted open. The thermos is being presented to him, and Dean takes it, making their fingers brush this time, because hell yeah. Those gorgeous fingers look sensitive, and Dean wants to see if they indeed are.

They are, if the brief fluttering of eyes and a slight blush is anything to go by.

Dean forgets to grin, caught up in the blue gaze, and he swallows, lifting the thermos a little in a _‘thank you’_ gesture.

“Uh, thanks.”

“That’ll be eight dollars,” the gravelly voice snaps him out of some vague thoughts, and he blinks.

“Huh? Oh – yeah, sure,” he digs through his pockets, picking out the change and sliding a couple $1 notes and some coins across the countertop.

Things had been going well, Dean kind of thought there might be a phone numbers exchange initiated, but then Charlie – _Charles_ , and he still doesn’t look like one – just dropped the price, and it looks like he’s not as interested as Dean had thought. Which is just peachy enough on its own, because Dean never reads these kinds of situations wrong.

Still, he’s hot, and nice, and hot, and a little quirky in a nice, dorky way, and _hot_ , so Dean digs out four more quarters and drops them into the tips jar.

Blue eyes flash to the jar and then back to Dean.

“Thank you,” Charlie says, and Dean smiles dismissively.

Just then, a herd of giggling teenage girls barge inside, and well, any shot Dean might still have given the Number Exchange Mission has been curbed. He sure as hell ain’t gonna be doing this with four giggly girls giving both him and Charlie dreamy eyes behind his back.

Well, he thinks, giving Charlie a nod, at least he knows where the gorgeous bastard works. Dean has a feeling he’s gonna be back here even if Charlie’s coffee tastes like overcooked goat spit.

He flicks two fingers in a flirtatious salute, pleased to note a slight blush again, and if there’s a little more swag than usual in his step when he leaves the coffee shop, well, there’s no Sam to point it out.

Later, on reaching the firehouse, he takes the thermos out of his bag, and, unable to resist, takes a sip.

Son of a bitch. The coffee is _perfect_.

* * *

 

Castiel’s day had started on a slight tilt away from the average.

Charlie, his best (and only) friend whom he’d once foolishly entrusted with a spare set of keys to his flat, had barged into his bedroom at a blasphemously early hour and proceeded to frantically explain to him that there is an IT jobs fair going on, and that the girl who was supposed to take her shift at the coffee shop had just called her to tell her she’s projectile vomiting and thus unable to fulfil her earlier promise. Then, Charlie had thrust her coffee shop logo T-shirt at Castiel and begged him to fill in for her, since he’s done it before and even enjoyed himself.

Castiel had agreed, of course, because Charlie is his best (and only) friend, and his job as a writer doesn’t provide the excuse of having a tightly wound schedule at some remote office.

Once sufficiently awake, Castiel had donned on Charlie’s T-shirt (her nametag included, since the name conveniently could double as a man’s name) and headed to the coffee shop.

It’s a pleasing place, which he sometimes visits. He usually asks Charlie to make him something she recommends, and sits quietly at a secluded table in an alcove with a bay window. Sometimes, he sits on the spacious windowsill. In both cases, he does some writing, mostly in his battered notebook, but sometimes he brings his laptop along. They’re good, slow days when he does this.

He’s also filled in for Charlie two times or so in the past, and he’s been told by a few customers his coffee is of a fine quality. Therefore, he’s not particularly nervous or high-strung when he takes up residence behind the counter, sharing the responsibility with two other baristas, one of whom spends most time serving the tables.

His day is going well and he’s served some pleased customers, and then a beautiful, green-eyed man walks in, and Castiel is lost. He’s gorgeous, with a smile like the sun, crinkling, vibrantly green eyes and a captivating sort of confidence in his stance. He announces himself suddenly, when Castiel is busy scribbling a particularly witty sentence he’s just come up with, so when he looks up from his notebook, he’s mercilessly collided with the sheer beauty of this man.

The perfect features of his face are also sprinkled with galaxies of freckles, and dear heavens, Castiel is not sure he can be competent around this man. At _anything_.

As the beautiful man details his order, Castiel is capable only of repeating ‘of course’ over and over, in three different variations, which is humiliating – he is a _writer_ , he is supposed to be good with words and weave intricate, sparkly sentences, not be reduced to one-word replies and stunted monotony. Still, he’s always had more grace with words on paper than in a conversation.

The man is gorgeous, full of lazy charm that drips like honey from a sunlit jar, and Castiel is determined to at least serve him with a wonderful coffee, if he cannot be counted on providing a stimulating conversation.

At one point he has a vague impression that the beautiful man might be flirting with him, but he dismisses it, angry at his own naivety and wishful thinking. A man so gorgeous and charming surely must already be unavailable, and even if he were available, he certainly wouldn’t be flirting with Castiel over a coffee shop counter.

Castiel knows he is not aesthetically displeasing. In fact, he realises fairly well he is what constitutes as attractive with a majority of tastes, but he’s not the most socially apt person. And he’s certainly proving this now, nearly colliding with another barista and making a weak excuse to the beautiful, sun-kissed man so tantalisingly close to him.

He blushes once or twice, foolishly blurts out the price instead of tugging the subtly curling string of conversation a little further and perhaps managing to present himself better, and subsequently the encounter is cut short by a group of teenage girls entering the shop. The beautiful man leaves, tossing him a playful salute on his way out, and Castiel swallows, trying not to let his knees buckle.

He’s made a bit of an idiot of himself… at the very least, he won’t be back here tomorrow, or any other day, for that matter. And he may never see this man again, and perhaps it is for the better, because he would inevitably be embarrassed, and he certainly wouldn’t stand any more chance with him than he had just now.

At least… at least he has a beautiful memory now. A memory of green eyes swirling with specks of hazel, a smattering of star-like freckles, slow, warm smiles and a deep voice with the gentlest Southern lilt.

Yes, it will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked! It's not as funny or nearly as witty as I wanted it to be, but apparently stress has hammered parts of my intelligence, forgive me.
> 
> Part two: Dean comes back to the coffee shop and is very confused. Meanwhile, Cas daydreams, trying to forget the handsome, freckled stranger for his own good.
> 
> I'll try to get the second installment out sometime relatively soon :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long. I'm still robbed of free time and stressed out by exams and thesis. But I'll do my best not to take so long with the third and last chapter :) (Especially after the way this one ends...)

* * *

The worst part of the night shifts is the boredom.

They just drag on forever, one minute ticking slower than the previous, and the hardest thing is staying awake, with a focused mind ready to react. Dean very nearly goes crazy sometimes. He hates sitting put and wasting time, and yeah, day shifts look pretty much the same, but still it’s somehow different, it’s _day_ , it’s natural to be up and about, and if he gets really desperate, he can always look out the window and stare at people passing. Once they even had binoculars and used to snoop on the people living across the street, but Bobby had found them and confiscated them, grumbling about ‘idjits’ and ‘goddamn voyeurs’.

And sure, they do things on night shifts – they play cards and crap, they even have a couple board games (hey, board games are classics and they’re awesome, anyone who disagrees can can it, according to Dean), and they watch movies, but it still doesn’t help when it’s the fifth hour in, and Dean’s brain really just wants to shut down. The boredom is the worst. There are nights so boring that Dean actually wishes for a fire somewhere, and that’s just so sick and disgusting he can’t look in the mirror the next day.

At any rate, coffee is really essential to Dean’s survival and at least semi-correct mental functioning.

So finding out that Charlie not only is gorgeous as fuck and really nice, but also makes the most epically perfect coffee Dean’s ever tasted… well, Dean’s just about ready to grab his credit card and go into debt buying a ring at the nearest jewellery store to propose.

Once he sleeps off the night shift, he’s a little more in control of his impulses, so instead of proposing, he decides to go back to the coffee shop and have his first coffee of the day at 4 pm, and get to know Charlie a little bit better. He takes about half an hour picking out his clothes like an idiot teenager, but hey, he knows what he looks good in, so he’s gonna use every advantage in his arsenal, because Charlie is… well, he’s something. Hot and smart and interesting and makes a killer coffee… And underneath it all, there had been something more, a sort of a twinge somewhere in Dean’s gut. A want of something more than another one night stand… and maybe just a teeny-weeny bit of hope that there just might-

Nope. Dean very decisively redirects that train of thought. It’s too early, and he’s not a twelve year old with a first crush.

Still, he puts on his trusted leather jacket, casts one more look in the mirror, and maybe styles his hair just a little bit more. (Yes, he’s considered the idea of rolling into the shop in his fireman suit, but he’s above that – for now, at least.)

All in all, Dean is in pretty damn high spirits as he strolls into the coffee shop – he’s planning to order another of Charlie’s epic Americanos (a single one this time, not four in one thermos like yesterday) and sit at one of the tables and try to get to know Charlie better. Test the waters and see if he can try to ask him out, maybe.

The shop is a little busier than it was yesterday, and well, it’s just past four, a lot of people are getting out of work or school. Dean uses the opportunity to take a look around, scanning the place for Charlie as he slowly approaches the counter. No sign of the captivating blue eyes or the glorious sex-hair though. Maybe he doesn’t work Fridays, Dean thinks, though he keeps looking around, just in case.

“Can I help you?” a perky, Hispanic looking girl stops by his side, dressed in the shop logo T-shirt and carrying three empty mugs in her hands.

“Uh, I’m looking for Charlie?” Dean asks, because hey, that’s a normal enough thing, right? People visit each other at work occasionally, and this girl – Tracey, her nametag says – doesn’t have to know Dean’s gently toeing the line of stalking.

“Oh, that’s her, over there,” Tracey points at the counter, and Dean frowns, following the line.

There’s only one barista behind the counter, and like the oddly chosen pronoun suggested, she’s a girl – a flaming red-head, kind of friendly looking, but what the hell?

“Uh, no, I mean the other Charlie – ya know, a guy, dark hair, blue eyes…” _really, really hot…_

Tracey frowns, confused.

“Sorry… We only have one Charlie, and that’s her.”

Dean blinks slowly. What the heck…?

“Are you sure? I ordered coffee yesterday and the guy who served me had dark hair, blue eyes, kind of a deep gravelly voice? Ring any bells?”

She shakes her head, pressing her mouth into an apologetic line.

“Sorry,” she repeats. “No one like that works here. Maybe it was in another shop? There are a couple in the neighbourhood, maybe you’ve got the wrong one.”

Dean’s so brain-screwed that all he can get out is a mindless: “Yeah, maybe… thanks.”

The girl nods at him and walks away. Dean stares after her unseeingly, and his mind is sort of tingling and feeling like it just might explode if he thinks about this too hard. He looks at the redhead girl behind the counter again, and closes his eyes for a moment, because he feels he might lose it any moment now.

He had been here just yesterday. There was a Charlie, and he was a fucking _guy_ , gorgeous as hell, heaven and freaking _purgatory_ rolled into one, and he served Dean the best quadruple order of Americano ever. He was here, and he wasn’t a figment of Dean’s slightly sex-starved imagination.

And now, less than twenty four hours later, he hears that nobody like this actually works here, and for all he knows, this perfect guy had been some ephemeral vision sent by angels or demons or whoever else wanted to screw with Dean’s brain a little.

What the actual hell…?

* * *

 

Castiel sighs and leans back in his chair, staring at the blinking cursor at the end of the sentence. Somehow, he has no idea how to start the next one. That’s usually his greatest nemesis, as well as starting a new scene to open a new chapter.

He sighs again and peers out the wide-open window, enjoying the sunlight and the summery breeze wafting through, carrying small flecks of brightly lit fluff swirling in the air. It all smells fresh and enticingly lazy, and he’s tempted to go out and see how the bees are doing in the flowerbeds kept up around his apartment building, but he’s promised himself to finish this chapter without distractions. And he’s so close, too. Just one more scene. Then, he’ll maybe drive to the gardeners’ centre just outside of town and purchase some new plants – maybe more lavender – for his balcony, to invite more bees. Or maybe some new flowers, to balance their diet better.

As always, these days, his thoughts quickly drift to the beautiful, green-eyed stranger he’d met at Charlie’s coffee shop, and he sighs again, biting on his lower lip musingly. He lets himself float around in this lovely fantasy a little, and very determinedly doesn’t think about how pathetic this possibly makes him.

The man had been so… so _pleasant_. Not just ruinously gorgeous, but also so very charming and beautifully captivating in his demeanour. He was all sunshine and bright smiles and wit and somehow so very inviting. There was an air of friendliness around him and more, somehow he felt so easy to become familiar with. And Castiel wishes he hadn’t been so dumb and smitten and actually managed to function like a proper human being and possibly indeed become familiar with the beautiful man.

Those green eyes alone… oh, they’ve starred in Castiel’s numerous late-night fantasies these last four days. Drove him crazy. And that voice – so very rich and expressive, deep but not overly, simply perfect. Castiel had imagined that voice saying, crying and moaning his name one night in the shower as he jerked off, he imagined those brilliant green eyes hazing with pleasure and sliding closed, and those deep-pink, full lips parting open in a moan and a sigh. And that vision alone was enough to make him come hard.

A few times, he’d even contemplated going back to the coffee shop. Perhaps that gorgeous man was a regular there, perhaps the next time they meet Castiel can manage to keep his brain working and get to know this handsome man better… But well, for one thing – he hadn’t seemed to be too familiar with the shop, and for the other, Castiel isn’t too adept at charming social interactions. He tends to be either too awkward, or too bold and with too much abstract sense of humour. He’s better off writing.

His books are quite popular, ranking somewhat high on the list of bestsellers, but not quite so rabidly hyped as some. Still, his publisher had informed him just last week that a film studio had expressed some vague and noncommittal interest in his series. According to Balthazar – his publisher – he should be hopeful. Castiel thinks he’ll be happy either way.

His series is an ongoing story of travels – his protagonist, who calls himself Jimmy, is an angel curious of the world, a little shy about using his wings and preferring trains, cars and occasionally airplanes as he roams the world, making allies and enemies, all the while heartbroken about the heavenly war tearing apart his home.

(Gabriel claims it says something very disturbing about Castiel, but Castiel likes the story and enjoys writing it.)

Maybe he can create a new character… a beautiful, green-eyed, freckle-dusted angel who would swoop into Jimmy’s life…

His phone starts ringing, snapping him out of the (increasingly erotic) plans for the green-eyed character, and he grunts, picking up.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

“ _Hey there, Cassy_!” Gabriel, energetic and pleased as always, chirps into his ear. “ _How is my favourite brother doing_?”

“I’m your only brother, Gabriel,” Castiel replies, perhaps a little grumpily, as he reaches for his cooled-off tea.

“ _Well, you’re in good mood_ ,” Gabriel scoffs. “ _And I have just the thing for that! Me and Sammich are going out tonight, you know, just a bar or something, maybe you’d like to join_?”

“Hmm…” Castiel does like Sam, he’s met him three or four times and they’ve formed a budding friendship – he’s a very kind, pleasant person, and makes Gabriel look exceptionally hilarious when standing next to him. Still, he’s not very much in the mood for an outing tonight.

“ _Oh, come on, Cassy_ ,” Gabriel encourages in that perky, playfully growling voice of his. “ _It’s gonna be fun. Sam’s brother might be coming – you know, Dean the hot beefcake you’ve never met? He’s a_ fireman _, you know! A bisexual fireman_.”

Of course Gabriel has an agenda.

“Gabriel, I don’t think I’m in the mood,” he sighs. Truth is, he’s not particularly keen on meeting someone. He wants to enjoy the fantasy of the beautiful, freckled man a little longer.

“ _Aw, come on, Cassy, it’s gonna be fun_!”

“I wanted to write tonight, Gabriel.”

“ _You can write whenever. Come on, you don’t have to stay long. Just come see me so that I know you’re still alive and I’m not talking to a pre-record!_ ”

Castiel sighs, rolling his eyes. Better to agree than to risk Gabriel somehow (illegally) obtaining a key to his apartment, sneaking in and booby-trapping his personal space with pranks. He’s done it before.

“Fine. I’ll come, but just for a while. Text me when and where.”

“ _Great_ ,” Gabriel hums. “ _See you soon, little brother_!”

Castiel hums out a vague goodbye and disconnects, sighing. He’s not exactly eager to meet Sam’s brother… not that he doubts he’s a nice man, Sam speaks of Dean often and always with love and admiration.

But well, maybe meeting this Dean Winchester will somehow help take his mind off the mouth-wateringly gorgeous man from the coffee shop, at least for a while.

* * *

 

Dean turns into a borderline stalker over the next four days. At least twice a day, he checks out the coffee shop, usually from the outside, peering through the windows, but sometimes he goes in and takes a better look around. No luck each time – no trace of the gorgeous, sweet and witty blue-eyed angel. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air.

Dean’s not happy about this.

Still, he orders his coffee there the next time he has a night shift, all the while suspiciously eyeballing the redhead girl also identified as Charlie. Sure enough, her nametag confirms it, and she seems nice enough from what he’s glimpsed, but again – what the _hell_?

The day after his night shift, he wakes up around one pm, as per usual, and continues to obsessively think about the mysterious Charlie-the-hot-guy. The nonexistent hot guy, it seems.

Still, existent or not, the guy sure had starred the leading role in all of Dean’s late night fantasies over the last four days, and also was an amazing inspiration in the shower. But what’s worse, Dean keeps catching himself thinking about some less sex-driven details, like the warm gleam in those large blue eyes, the softness of a quick smile, and the hints of a quirk or two which were, goddammit, _adorable_.

Yes, Dean’s all for one night stands, because it’s really all he can hope for, at this point. But it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like, maybe, kinda-sorta, try a chance at something _more_ , if he had the opportunity…

He shakes his head. Dammit, the guy’s only half-real, it seems, and Dean’s daydreaming about _something more_. Huh. Maybe he really is as pathetic with his _love life_ as Sam’s implying.

His phone starts ringing, and hey, speak of the satan, it’s Sammy.

“Hey, what’s up,” he picks up and starts shuffling towards the kitchen, because half past one pm is his breakfast time on days after night shifts. Upside? Those days are totally free for him, so in effect he only works four days a week, with only one or two night shifts, depending on how many he takes.

“ _Nothing, just calling to see how you doing_ ,” the shrug is audible in Sam’s voice.

“Sam, there wasn’t a fire. I’m fine,” Sammy keeps thinking Dean’s gonna get himself killed, and whenever there’s a fire, he freaks out and calls Dean non-stop as soon as he calculates the operation is winding down. The nerd is a subscriber to the fire station site, so he gets notified about fires and shit.

“ _Geez, I was being brotherly,_ ” Sam sighs in exasperation. “ _So, any plans today?_ ”

“Nah…” Dean investigates the state of things in the fridge – he prides himself on having it nicely stocked at all times, so finding something for a breakfast is just a matter of choosing the nicest option now.

He blames the decision process for not seeing right through Sammy’s obvious sinister plan, and he almost drops a bottle of milk (yes, he’s a fireman and he drinks milk – he’s proud to say he’s also got a calendar photograph to his name. He’s August, by the way.) when Sam speaks next.

“ _So, me and Gabe are going out tonight, just to hang out, drink some beer, and we’re meeting up with Gabe’s brother, Castiel, I don’t think you’ve met him, but I told you about him… I was thinking, maybe you could join?_ ” Sam asks, all sugary innocence, so thick it downright oozes into Dean’s ear, and he can practically see the puppy eyes Sam’s doubtlessly making right now.

Blind date. Sam can go stuff it.

“I dunno, Sammy, not really in the mood,” he twists the cap off the milk bottle.

“ _Come on, you’d meet Castiel! He’s really cool, I really don’t know how come you two haven’t met yet_.”

“Something from Gabe’s gene pool?” Dean snorts into his milk. “No, thanks, dude.”

“ _Come on, Dean_ ,” he can hear the forceful eye-roll in Sam’s groan. “ _Don’t be an asshole. Actually, you might like him, he’s not like Gabe at all.”_

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dean takes one more sip and twists the cap back on. “Sorry, Sammy, gonna pass on this one. I wanna catch up on _Dr Sexy_ and sit alone in my underwear.”

“ _You suck_ ,” Sam complains, and Dean is twelve, because he can’t help thinking that hell yeah, he’d love to suck on that blue-eyed wet dream’s cock.

“Sorry. Tell Gabriel I hate him.”

“ _You’re also a jerk. You both are,_ ” Sam sighs, because Sam doesn’t get the affectionately hateful relationship Dean and Gabriel have going on.

“Have fun, bitch.”

“ _Bye_.”

Dean tosses the phone across the room and pumps a triumphant fist into the air when it lands nicely on the sofa. He has a brief flash of guilt towards this faceless Castiel who will be stuck with Sam and Gabriel’s nauseating flirty-lovey antics all by himself tonight, but Dean’s not really in the mood to be set up on a blind date right now.

Not when he has such a gorgeous, dark-haired, blue-eyed and gravel-voiced mystery to solve.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahahaaaa!
> 
> (Yes, Dean is a complete and utter and wonderful idiot.)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Castiel had not been stood up.

He tells himself that very determinedly as he brews his tea the next day and peers out the window, past the flower boxes housing shrubs of lavender (good for the bees), and sits down, opening his laptop with a desperate delusion he’ll get some writing done in the morning.

He had _not_ been stood up last night, because last night was not a date. Simply a quick night out among, well, family, he supposes. Sam’s brother simply could not make it. He is a fireman (a bisexual fireman, as Gabriel underlines) – a noble and time-consuming profession with night shifts and everything. So really, it’s ridiculous for Castiel to be even remotely upset, because _it was not a date_.

With the state of affairs thusly cleared, he opens the document with his upcoming novel (or what is supposed to be his upcoming novel anyway) and reads the last two paragraphs in hopes of reeling himself into the mood and possibly typing out something more related to the goings-on of his characters than a slightly erotic description of smiling, gleaming green eyes, dark pink lips, mesmerising silhouette, and a beautiful face dusted with freckles.

The tea is warm and soothing when he takes a sip, but it doesn’t help take his thoughts off the gorgeous stranger from the coffee shop. He’d shared the story of the encounter with Charlie (had been broken after long and gruelling interrogation), but carefully refrained from recounting it to Gabriel. He could only imagine the amount of jokes his brother would manage to crack within just the initial minutes. Luckily, Gabriel is much more absorbed with Sam as of late, now that they’re very definitely moving in together and looking for a new apartment, since Gabriel’s hitherto dwelling is apparently getting too small for their needs. Thus, Castiel has lately been given a much welcome reprieve from Gabriel’s attempts at aiding his ‘love life’.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the thought, of course. He knows Gabriel means well (or at least that’s what Castiel _has to_ believe). But he’d prefer to deal with his love life (or lack thereof) on his own.

He grumbles into his tea as he takes another sip, staring at the blinking cursor. All he can think of are ways to sing praise to the coffe shop’s beautiful stranger’s stunning looks, and this will simply not do. He’s not even at a point in his book where he could viably introduce a new character, let alone a potential romance for Jimmy the angel. That, and he’s simply not yet stooped low enough to create romantic and erotic fantasies about a dashing stranger and live them vicariously through his protagonist.

With this firm resolution in mind, he looks at the cursor again, but its cold-hearted and indifferent blinking somehow sucks energy out of him. He takes another sip of his tea and peers out the window again – his writing nook is a very pleasant place, a desk tucked into a corner, right by a set of large, pleasant windows and framed with bookcases, a combination of a nice sense of space and cosiness at once. The weather is bright and warm, light wind lit with sun and ruffling vibrant green trees and bushes, bringing out colours all around. A bee swirls around on the breeze, sniffing about Castiel’s flowers curiously, before at last settling on one of the lavender shrubs. Castiel smiles, watching it work on one violet flower before buzzing an inch to the side and industriously taking on another. He can hear it buzzing through the open window.

Uplifted by the sight of the bee, he turns again to his laptop, and tries to push away the thoughts of involving Jimmy romantically with a beautiful, green-eyed and freckled angel. Maybe in the next novel.

His phone pings with a text from Charlie, inquiring about last night.

Castiel sighs, typing out a quick response. Last night hadn’t been _bad_. A fairly pleasant night out with his brother and said brother’s (very much serious) boyfriend – a few beers, an easy conversation and putting up with Gabriel attempting to climb Sam like his personal jungle gym.

The phone pings again, delivering an invitation from Charlie to come by her coffee shop and _discuss_ things. Castiel is not very eager to _discuss_ , but the day is so beautiful that he doesn’t want it to succumb to the evil cursor’s apathetic blinking.

And so, he finishes his tea, gets dressed (just jeans and a t-shirt), packs his notebook and fountain pen, and heads out.

It’s really a very pleasant day – warm and sunny and energized somewhat by the happy gusts of wind tugging at Castiel’s hair and doubtlessly turning it into an even more hopeless mess than it usually is. He decides to walk most of the way, taking a ride on a bus for a stop or two, and tries to will himself into the nice sort of relaxation that would help him write once back home.

At the coffee shop, Charlie greets him with an enthusiastic windmill of a wave from behind the counter.

“Soooo?” she grins. “Did you meet that brother person?”

Castiel cannot rein in the treacherous flush and he scowls out of frustration, docking at the counter.

“No,” he admits, and scowls even further when Charlie makes a sympathetic sound. “He couldn’t make it, apparently. Being a fireman and all, I suppose,” he shrugs.

He had _not_ been stood up.

“A _fireman_ , huh?” Charlie’s smile turns sly and she makes an appreciative (and somewhat alarmingly creepy) wiggle with her eyebrows. There is just enough resemblance with Gabriel to make Castiel deeply uneasy for a moment.

“A bisexual fireman,” he repeats Gabriel’s words from their phone conversation.

“Ooh, that sounds promising… and he didn’t come? Well, his loss.”

“This wasn’t a blind date, Charlie,” Castiel squints at her suspiciously, expertly picking up the onset of pity on her friendly face.

“Well, yeah, but still a bummer. Want some coffee? I owe you like a lifetime of free coffee for filling in for me, so you might as well milk it,” he grins invitingly.

“Yes, please,” he replies primly, because he’s still needled by the insinuation that his failed meeting with that Dean Winchester fireman was supposed to have been a date of any sorts, blind or otherwise.

“So, how was your shift?” Charlie asks as she gets about making his coffee. “Any problems?”

“Nothing alarming…” Castiel replies slowly, his treacherous thoughts straying yet again to the beautiful, green eyed and freckle-dusted stranger who’d so jauntily walked into his day and thus made the rest of his week painfully unproductive.

The gorgeous man lingers in Castiel’s thoughts, dissipating them mostly into uselessness. No writing had happened, save for a few (almost embarrassing) paragraphs devoted to a new, green-eyed and beautiful stranger entering Jimmy’s life.

Much to his annoyance, Castiel just might be in trouble.

* * *

 

Dean’s in deep-shit trouble.

He’s also very much pathetic, a handy voice in his head supplies, but he shoves it aside, because he’s risking his life on a regular basis doing his job, he can be a little pathetic if he wants.

Sam had called him early in the morning, when Dean’s inner defence mechanisms were still asleep and failed to prevent him from picking up the phone. Sam then talked his ear off about not turning up, even though Dean _did_ say he wouldn’t. Apparently, Gabe’s brother – Castiel – had been disappointed, but dammit, Dean doesn’t want or need to be set up on a blind date!

Thing is, Dean knows why he’s not really up for any blind dates. Apart from it never being a good idea (and also apart from this one featuring someone sharing Gabe’s genetic material – no, thanks), he’s also pretty damn hung up on the mysterious, hot Charlie from the coffee shop. Mysterious, hot, sex-haired, sex-voiced and cosmically blue-eyed Charlie.

Mysterious, hot and apparently _fucking nonexistent_ Charlie.

Over the last few days, Dean’s gotten in the habit of checking out the coffee shop every now and then. This probably qualifies him as a semi-stalker, but at this point he just doesn’t care. His brain is being screwed with, he’s entitled to getting his answers.

Since he has about two hours before he has to report for duty at the fire station, he decides what the hell, he’ll do a quick raid of the coffee shop. Maybe this time the mystery will magically solve itself, or at the very least, he’ll get a damn decent coffee out of this. Or, maybe this time he’ll find a way to ask about his hot, hot Charlie without sounding like a nutjob.

The coffee shop looks as deceptively benign as always, but Dean’s onto it, so he eyes it with suspicion as he pushes the door (which, by the way, is against fire safety regulations, doors are supposed to open to the _outside_ – this place is evil).

Inside is moderately crowded – just enough to keep the baristas and servers busy and the tables mostly occupied, but not enough to form a queue at the counter.

And then Dean stops dead in his tracks, because _right there_ , and that fucking counter, is _Charlie_.

There’s _Charlie_ , just fucking standing there, on the _wrong_ side of the counter, sans the company T-shit and nametag, and talking to a redhead female barista who looks vaguely familiar, and fuck, that’s the one who was identified as Charlie when Dean came looking for his blue-eyed wet dream, and Dean’s brain is about to fucking explode, because this is an unreal level of clusterfuck.

" _Charlie_?" he blurts out.

They both look, the dark-haired, _male_ Charlie turning around and hitting Dean dead on with those unearthly blue eyes. The redhead narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"Who's askin'?" she demands.

"Um..." _oh, smooth, Winchester_. "I, uh... I was here a couple days ago? You were here, and you were working the counter," he looks at the blue-eyed Charlie. "Remember?"

"Oh," he makes a sheepish sound, eyes flicking down as he smiles with... embarrassment? Dean's not sure, his brain has lost all ability to process information. "Yes, I remember you. I mean, I remember that. I was filling in for Charlie. She's a friend," he adds a little hurriedly.

"Right," Dean feels like the clusterfuck might be letting up a little. "So your name is _not_ Charlie."

" _Oh_ ," not-Charlie makes an enlightened sound, and then chuckles. "No, not at all, but I see what you mean. The nametag. No, my name is Castiel."

...aaaaand the clusterfuck explodes, tenfold.

Dean gapes, feeling on the brink of aneurism. Or, already on the other side of the brink.

"Castiel?" he finally says slowly. "As in, Castiel Novak?"

Now it's Castiel's turn to blink and look confused, while the redhead Charlie narrows her eyes in deep suspicion again.

"Yes..." Castiel confirms warily.

"Castiel, as in, younger brother of Gabriel Novak?" Dean feels some pressure growing inside him, about to explode, and he realises he's about to burst out laughing.

"Yes. I... I'm sorry, how-"

And then Dean _does_ burst out laughing. This is just too fucking much and too fucking delightful.

"Oh, man," he shakes his head, still laughing. "My name is Dean Winchester, and now we're gonna have to run away together, cause our brothers will _never_ let us live this down."

* * *

They do run away together. Well, sort of. They have coffee, which stretches out into a date, and they spend a whole weekend in an out-of-town motel. Sam and Gabriel laugh at them for months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, people :) Sorry it took so unbelievably long, I'm on my worst writer's block ever. Anyway, sorry this chapter is so short, but this story was meant to only have 2 chapters originally, so the third one is kind of dinky :P


End file.
